


violence and knives

by britpop



Category: Blur, Britpop - Fandom
Genre: Dreams and Nightmares, M/M, Paranormal, Visions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2014-12-03
Packaged: 2018-02-21 16:40:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2475128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/britpop/pseuds/britpop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Graham's seeing blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> look. ok. i don't know. i just don't know. i watched taxi driver and blue velvet in the same day then read articles about blur and then this happened. this is like. starshaped graham. and i don't know if i'll ever finish it.

“You know what your problem is Graham?”  
“No, Damon. Please, enlighten me.” 

Graham is sitting at his desk, chin resting on the palm of his hand and his free hand gently guiding a pen along notebook paper, drawing swirls and lightning bolts to the sound of Damon’s raised voice. He wishes that Damon would disappear, just evaporate like water into thin air and never show up again. That’d be really great.

“You just sit here and you wallow and wallow and wallow and you never try to get yourself outta the hole you dig yourself into. You just sit around, downin bottle after bottle and never get off your arse and do something about your shitty life. You just fuck around and drink all day and then throw matches at me and laugh about it like it’s some sick fucking joke.”   
Graham shrugs, not at all phased by what Damon’s saying. 

“It’s so exhausting to deal with you, you know that?”   
Graham’s attention drifts from the swirls and lightning bolts to the dark brown walls and he wonders for a moment if it’s real wood or not. 

“Because you don’t have to do this, you really don’t. You don’t have to go around fucking breaking expensive equipment and smashing beer bottles and, and, and.” Damon falters, realizing that Graham isn’t paying attention to him. Graham thinks about pine trees and car fragrances that smell like pine trees.

“Why don’t you listen to me?” Damon asks. Graham wonders about different kinds of trees and whatever happened to that one television show he used to watch when he was younger. 

“Everytime I try to have a conversation with you you’re somewhere else, off in the distance.” 

He thinks it was called Twin Peaks or something like that and that one guy from that sort of fucked up movie Blue Velvet was in it. Wasn’t he in Dune too?

“Even when I’m arguing with you you’re somewhere else doing God knows what. Like right now, you’re just staring at the wall. You’re probably drunk, like always.” 

Something about what Damon just said makes the chemicals in his stomach churn. He pushes the thought of throwing up away and thinks about the show again. It was spooky. Fire was a huge part of it, it was like a main thing in the show. A mill burnt down and someone used to throw matches at someone else just like Graham does to Damon sometimes. 

“Hello?” Damon asks, trying to get his attention. “Ground control to Major Tom?” He steps closer to him and Graham wants to shrink into the size of a cell and slither his way through the cracks in the concrete outside. Become a worm. Find a nice area in the cool soil to live in and stay there. Maybe he’ll go to that caverns thing some time, that’ll be fun. Or maybe he’ll bury himself alive! Also lots of fun. 

“Graham?” Damon glances at the notebook on the desk in front of Graham and reads the words; ‘DAMONS A CUNT’ above several swirls and immediately smacks Graham in the back of the head as hard as he can. 

Graham flinches, shutting his eyes tightly, but not putting up a fight.

“I’m a cunt?” Damon asks in that weak, high pitched voice he gets when he’s really pissed off and then laughs breathlessly, another thing he does when he’s pissed. “You should look at yourself, mate.” 

As Damon makes his way out the door, Graham relaxes and opens up his eyes again. He doesn’t get up until he can’t hear Damon’s footsteps anymore.   
He quietly shuffles through his vinyl and cranks up the speakers to full volume, gently placing a record onto the turntable. 

_“A cheap holiday in other people’s misery!”_

He lets himself slide down onto the floor beside the turntable and watches the record spin in circles until he begins to feel ill again.

_“I don’t want a holiday in the sun / I want to go to new Belsen / I wanna see some history / ‘Cause now I got a reasonable economy..”_

 

The past few weeks of his life have been some sort of sick joke. Nothing but fighting and yelling and bloody noses and dirty fingernails. He feels like he needs to scream and let all the anger building up in his gut out, but every time he opens up his mouth to scream nothing comes out but a pathetic little wheezing noise. This is some sort of metaphor for his life, he thinks. He convinces himself that he can be the vicious lion that digs its claws into anything that defies his orders, a lion that roars loud enough to shake the earth below his paws, but everytime it comes to actually doing something that requires that strength and confidence, he’s suddenly reduced to a tiny newborn kitten. Desperately squealing and kicking for attention.   
He sighs as the last few minutes begin to sink in. What has he done? All Damon was doing was trying to help him out, or at least try to explain to him why he’s been so frustrated with him lately, but instead of cooperating and being a good person for once in his life he just tuned him out and ended up making the whole situation a lot worse than it needs to be. He can feel himself slowly slipping away from his body again, which is something he currently cannot take so he decides to leave.

He pulls on his coat, grabs the closest bottle of vodka he can find and hurries out the door, not bothering to remove the record.

 

He’s walking down the empty sidewalk with shaking hands, the bottle of flavored vodka tucked into his jacket pocket. The streets are lit dimly by a single green, flickering streetlight in the center of the turnaround.   
He hates walking here at night, there’s always someone watching from the shadows of alleyways or from behind cracked windows. The whole area reeks of sex and vomit and every person he sees vanishes almost as soon as he turns to face them. He doesn’t trust this part of town. It vaguely resembles the aftermath of a bomb, complete with half broken down buildings and near empty apartment buildings. Desolate. Dead. Empty.

Alex’s apartment complex is recognizable only by the faint glow of the neon lights outside it that reads ‘Midnight Motel’. The sign is very obviously stolen and is hanging crooked above the front door, attracting moths and other insects. 

He pushes the heavy wooden doors open and sneaks inside, ignoring the loud music and flashing lights coming from the area behind the staircase that’s intended to be a lobby of some sort. 

The floor creaks obnoxiously as he tiptoes down the hallway and he curses underneath his breath about the sounds the building makes. 

Alex’s door is marked with a large ‘A11’, which sets it apart from every other identical black door in the building. He knocks once, very gently, and the door opens almost immediately after.   
He stands there in the door frame with this dazed look in his eyes, trembling. Before Graham can ask what’s wrong Alex pulls him inside by the wrist, slamming the door shut and connecting their lips. 

“Graham, oh Graham.”   
He can’t exactly respond to any of the light touches and kisses Alex is showering him with due to how far out he is, but he appreciated every gentle gesture and lets him know this by making a quiet hum of approval. Alex’s mouth tastes like wine and strawberries.   
“Oh you don’t even know how much I’ve missed you.” He buries his face in Graham’s neck, eyes fluttering shut. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but I’ve been missing you dearly lately and it’s really tearing me apart.”

Graham’s arms find themselves wrapped around Alex’s body, holding him tightly and finally allowing himself to relax. “I’ve missed you too.”   
Alex pulls away from Graham places a hand on either side of his face, studying him for what feels like an eternity before he finally kisses him. Softer this time, a lot less clashing of teeth and a lot more romantic.  
But it’s short lived, as Alex is soon ushering Graham to the red couch off in the corner. Graham sits down and begins to feel dizzy. Something’s not right here. He opens up the bottle he brought with him and takes several gulps, not bothering to offer Alex any.

“What bring you by?” Alex asks, still as frantic as he had been earlier.  
“Argument with Damon.” He grumbles between gulps. “Falling away again.” 

 

Alex folds his skinny fingers around the bottle of vodka and pulls it away from Graham’s lips, placing it on the floor beside him. Graham’s pink lips are left parted and wet, his gaze distant and clouded over. He’s watching this happen from somewhere else in the room.  
He sees Alex lean over and kiss him again, not saying anything about the bottle or how cold the room is or his trembling or the way the tiny cuts on Graham’s lips feel or metallic taste of blood that’s made its home inside Graham’s mouth. Just kisses him.  
He feels his hands move up and down his arm and knows what’s coming next.  
Alex digs his fingernails into Graham’s arm and bites down on his bottom lip, causing enough pain to bring him back into his body. He notices that this time Alex bites a little harder than usual, which must mean that it took a little longer to bring Graham back. 

"Has this been happening a lot?" Alex mumbles.  
"What?"   
"The whole out of body thing." Alex has hung his head, his hands tucked between his thighs. He's either flustered or hurt, either way Graham wants him to stop it.  
"It's been getting better." He lies, figuring it might make Alex feel a bit better, but he can tell Alex is still nervous. 

This relationship - if you could even call it that - has been going on for a little over 13 months now, a number to be weary of. They're boyfriends, or maybe they're not, but whatever it is that they are, it's close. Graham frequently spends his weekends wrapped up Alex's long limbs, kissing every inch of him. Staying up all night long in an all dark room, two entities alone till the end of time, soaking up every ounce of pleasure and making sure to leave marks. A necklace of hickeys around the collarbone, long scratch marks down the back, anything to confirm that the experience is real.   
And in the mornings they have their coffee, listening to the shouting and crashing of the wreck all around them. And then Graham goes home.  
Sits alone in his bedroom listening to old records and fighting the urge to paint on the walls. But at the end of the day he always ends up playing with the phone cord as he listens to Alex relay the day back to him.


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh? uh/??

"Graham?" 

Graham blinks, looking up at Alex. "Yes?"  
"Did you hear me?" He asks, making eye contact only out of fear.  
"No." He replies, a bit suspicious of Alex's unwavering anxiety.   
"I asked you how you've been."  
"Oh."

There's a thick layer of silence that falls over them as Graham struggles to find the words to describe the way he's been feeling. Lost would be a good one, detached, adrift, confused. Alienated.   
He settles on alienated and Alex doesn't say anything further, just begins to play with his fingers and go back to acting sheepish.  
Graham retrieves the bottle from the floor and takes another drink, watching Alex out of the corner of his eye. 

He's beginning to get fidgety, still shaking (although not as badly as he had been), and he keeps glancing at the door. Maybe he's waiting for someone.  
"I should get going." Graham begins, growing tired of the still air.   
“No!” Alex’s pulls Graham back down as soon as he begins to get up, voice raised slightly. “No, please stay. Just for tonight.”  
His heartbeat is increasing rapidly, a gust of cool wind blows through the windows and the curtains go wild like ghosts. A police siren sounds somewhere in the distance. He looks down at Alex’s hand around his wrist and notices the blood on his knuckles. That must be why he’s trembling.   
Graham jolts out of his haze and jumps up, yanking his arm back away from Alex and he doesn’t move after that. Just stares wide eyed at him, not too sure what to do.

“What’s with the blood on, on, on your hands?” He asks, no, demands. “What did you do?”  
“I didn’t do anything.”   
“Then why is there blood on your knuckles?” He stampers, beginning to back away slowly.  
“There isn’t.” He insists, dragging his hand along the couch to wipe it off. 

Graham darts forwards, dropping the bottle and grabbing Alex’s hands.  
“See?” He near yells, trying to get Alex to look at them. “See?”   
“I don’t see anything.” He replies and Graham checks again. 

He’s right. There’s nothing there. 

“I need to go.” Graham turns away from Alex, suddenly trembling.  
“Wait, Graham!” Alex follows him to the door. “Please stay.”   
Graham looks at him for a few moments, on the verge of tears. He studies his profound cheekbones, the dark rings around his eyes, the redness of his lips, what appears to smudged mascara running down his cheek from the corner of his left eye and his stomach begins to churn again. Something isn’t right here.   
“I need to go.” And then he’s gone. 

 

The next morning Graham finds himself lying on the floor of his kitchen, the television showing a documentary on David Bowie and the sunlight peeking out from behind the blinds and painting white stripes across his body.

“I'm in awe of the universe, but I don't necessarily believe there's an intelligence or agent behind it.” Graham tilts his head to look over at the tv. “I do have a passion for the visual in religious rituals, though, even though they may be completely empty and bereft of substance. The incense is powerful and provocative, whether Buddhist or Catholic.” 

Graham groans and rubs his temples. He’s spread out like a star in the middle of the floor, reeking of alcohol and tasting still of Alex. He hates it when he can still taste someone. It reminds him of how lonely he is, all in shreds by himself, feeling miserable.  
He stares down the corridor into his bedroom, where Damon had been standing just hours before yelling at him. In retrospect, Graham was being extremely immature. Had he just turned around and talked with him, it wouldn’t have ended up in an argument. Or rather, Damon wouldn’t have ended up arguing with himself. 

He manages to somehow raise himself up off the ground. The song “Quicksand” plays over a slideshow of Bowie over the years and Graham half expects the words ‘David Bowie, 1947 - 1993’ to appear on the screen but they never do.  
He’s dying to get out of here, but just looking out the window makes his head hurt and he feels a bit nauseous. He would hate to throw up on some poor bystander.

 

The phone rings from the other room and he’s thrown into a spin. He stumbles across the hall and into his bedroom, settling down onto the couch. He picks up the phone and wraps the cord around his neck, then holds the phone between his shoulder and ear.  
“Hello?”   
“Graham? Graham, it’s me.” Replies a voice he doesn’t recognize.   
“Hello, you.” His voice sounds more squeaky than it usually does, which immediately causes him extreme anxiety and he decides to barely speak at all for the rest of the day.  
“You don’t know who I am, do you?” The voice asks.  
“I don’t believe I do, no.” He reaches into the drawer below the nightstand and pulls out a pack of open cigarettes, bringing the white box to his lips and pulling one out.  
“It’s Jarvis.” The voice explains, “Are you coming to work today?”   
“How’d you get my number?” Questions Graham as he struggles to light his cigarette.   
“It’s in the records.” He replies quickly, “Look I need to know if you’ll be coming in today or not because I really don’t want to be here.”   
_In the records? What does that mean?_ “Oh.”   
“Could you perhaps elaborate, Graham?” He asks and then there’s another voice, a woman’s, and Jarvis excuses himself and there’s a quiet clicking noise when he puts the phone down on the counter. Graham shrugs and takes a drag on the cigarette, staring at the pool table green carpet. This apartment is so ugly. Why does he stay here?   
“Okay, Graham, will you be coming in today or not?”   
“What time is it?”  
“11.” He replies with an edge to his voice, as if he’s offended.   
“I’ll be there in a little bit.”   
“Define a little bit.”   
Graham hangs up.

 

The sun hangs bright in the sky, slowly being covered up by light grey clouds and as he pushes the doors to the record shop open, the quiet of the outside is replaced by screeching guitar. It goes straight to his head and his brain starts to ache even worse than before.

_‘He swallowed his pride and puckered his lips / And showed me the leather belt round his hips.’_

Jarvis is doing an odd little dance behind the counter, bobbing his head up and down and moving very slowly, as if intoxicated. He doesn’t seem to notice that he’s arrived, so Graham takes this opportunity to sneak over to the ‘new releases’ shelf and browse a bit.

_‘My knees were shaking my cheeks aflame / He said "You'll never go down to the Gods again”’_

The place smelled faintly of cigarettes, which he’s pretty sure is against the rules. Smoking, that is and he wants to ask Jarvis about it, but he’s still caught up in the music and there’s a yellow flyer on the counter that’s advertising a rave somewhere downtown and maybe Jarvis would enjoy that since he seems to be so caught up in the music now and.   
“I know you’re here Graham.” He suddenly says, “So don’t try to leave.”  
“I wasn’t gonna.” He trails off behind the counter, pulling out a stool from underneath the counter and sits down.  
“Where were you think morning?” He asks, turning the music down and then taking a seat at the counter. “You were supposed to open up.”  
“Yeah, yeah..” He replies, nodding in agreement, but Jarvis is still watching him and waiting for a response so he has to force another one out. “Asleep.”  
“‘Course you were..” 

Jarvis is eyeing him suspiciously and Graham swears he can see blood on his blazer.


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im gonna DIE just read it i finally did it

"Jarvis." Graham says, eyes wide and panic rising.   
"What?" He turns his full attention to Graham and takes note of how quickly his mood seemed to change.   
"There's blood on your blazer." He tells him, gesturing to a spot on Jarvis’ blazer where there are several drops of blood.   
“What?” He repeats, raising an eyebrow at him.

Graham’s head is beginning to spin and he feels nauseous now, surely Jarvis knows, right? He can see it there? Or does Graham just have really strong eyesight?

He watches as more spots appear on the dark brown fabric and it occurs to Graham that perhaps Jarvis has been shot in the heart.

“Have you been shot?” He asks, heart rate increasing just like it does all the time.  
“What?” He can’t help but ask again, none of this is making any sense. “No, no, I haven’t been shot.. Graham, are you alright?” He’s closer now, examining his eyes, possibly trying to determine whether or not Graham’s high.  
“Can’t you feel it?” He makes eye contact with Jarvis, hands between his thighs in order to hide how badly he’s trembling.  
“Feel what, Graham?” 

“The blood… on your blazer..” He looks back at the blazer and now there’s a whole blob of it. “You’re bleeding! There’s more and more and and.” He gets up from the stool and lifts up the blazer only to see a plain white button up underneath, clear of any blood stains and when he looks back to the blazer there’s none there either.

Jarvis is just watching him, not exactly scared, but more intrigued by the situation, although Graham can still see hints of concern in his gaze. “Graham?”  
“Yes?” He asks, voice quivering.   
“Go home.” 

So he goes home, not asking any more questions and making a mental note to go to the doctor.

 

Damon's on his knees, bobbing his mouth on Graham's cock and Graham finds it odd that he doesn't feel bad about this.  
He's gone all shaky, weak in the knees and slowly falling into that fuzzy headspace where there's nothing in the world but static and Damon's lips. He half wants to ask Damon what he was him to do for him, but he realizes as he looks down at him that at some point in time during Damon's sucking he'd pulled out his own cock and Graham's almost thankful that he won't have to do anything after this.  
He lets out a gasp as Damon takes him in all the way, his nose brushing up against Graham's lower stomach as he takes him in and out, doing Graham's work for him.   
He's close, and Damon knows it, so he lets the hand that was previously stroking himself run up Graham's leg and caress his balls.   
And as he's coming, Graham hutches forward over Damon and his nails into the back of his neck. This is all it takes, just a little pain, to get Damon coming as well.

It's something he's always been embarrassed by. His complete lack of control when he really wants it, and he's been working on it for months now, to hold back, not give in, be a tease. But with people like Graham, who know what makes him tick, there's no telling who's in control.  
Right now, Damon knows it's Graham, which is sort of comforting. He knows that he's safe and taken care of, and he also knows that he'll get what he wants sooner or later. 

He sits up, running his fingers through Damon's hair and trying to get himself together. "Good pup.." He mumbles, petting Damon's head. "Good, good pup." And Damon leans up against Graham's hand.   
The Graham falls back, stretching across the mattress and Damon gets up and fixes himself on his hips.  
He sits up as much as he can, hands pressing into the bed sheets and he watches Damon carefully to try and determine his next move.   
Damon leans in and connects their lips, letting whatever is left of Graham inside him to be lapped up by Graham's tongue.  
"Taste yourself," Damon mumbles as he eats at Graham's mouth and he watches as he lets out little moans between kisses.  
"Good, good.." He mumbles, satisfied with where he's got Graham. "Go clean yourself up, alright?" He says, and pulls away from the kiss to fix himself and button up his trousers. "You look like hell."  
"Thanks, Damon." Graham replies and waits patiently for Damon to climb off him. 

Damon's already made himself at home underneath the bed sheets when Graham gets back. He's got his back towards him and is writing in his journal, quietly humming the tune of a song Graham doesn't recognize.  
He lies down beside him, not bothering to try and see what he's writing. Damon would just push his face away in a playful manner, then instruct him not to look. He's accepted by now that he'll never know what's inside

"I love it when you wear teal." Damon breaks the silence and when Graham looks at him, the journal is already tucked underneath his pillow and Damon's eyes are Graham's briefs. "It really fits you."   
"Uh, thanks." He's a bit puzzled by the compliment as he's never been complimented on his choice of underwear but.. A compliment's a compliment.   
"No problem." He smiles and nods, as if he feels accomplished. Like he's done his good deed for the day.

Graham's thoughts drift elsewhere, to the guilt he had been forcing back earlier, and he imagines himself telling Alex about all the things Damon and him have done behind his back. There's a sinking feeling in his stomach as he picture the argument they'd get into and if there would be violence involved. What if Alex hit him? What if he hit Alex?   
Just thinking about it is making him anxious, even if he knows that none of that hitting stuff would actually happen. He feels like his brain is going to cave in on him and he needs answers, he needs to think this through. 

"Damon?"   
"Yes?"   
"What if Alex finds out?" His voice is weak and full of fear, Damon can almost see the tears building up in Graham's eyes.  
"Hey, hey.." He places a kiss on Graham's forehead and gently wipes away the tears beginning to fall. "Calm down, it's okay."  
He's starting to shake now, which is making Damon get a bit nervous. "No, it isn't!" He insists, "What if Alex finds out?"  
"He won't, baby, he won't." He kisses him again, struggling to find ways to calm him down. "There's no way he will."

Graham's psyche continues to unravel and Damon knows there's nothing he can do about it now, so he lies back down and let's Graham cry his heart out.   
He slides back down underneath the covers and snuggles up to Damon, still crying, but maybe it's better to hide during times like these.  
"Sweetheart, it's really alright." Damon lifts up the bed sheets to look at Graham all curled up to his side, sniffling and crying.   
"I'm sorry, Damon." He chokes out.  
"Sorry for what, Gra? You have nothing to be sorry for." He pets Graham's hair softly.   
"For being a total prick the other day, I should've just talked to you and you wouldn't have started yelling." It's getting worse the more he thinks and Damon tries desperately to reassure him that's he's okay but his own ego is starting to get in the way.  
"It isn't your fault." _Except it totally is._ "I should have been yelling in the first place." _Even though I have good reason to._ "I shouldn't try to force you out of your shell." _Except I know you're full of secrets and you're using your so called 'comfort zone' to hide them from me but whatever._   
Graham stays quiet, trying to even his breathing and relax himself, despite how fast his heart is beating and the tornado going on in his head.   
"I love you, Damon." He manages.  
"I love you too, Gra."


	4. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is.. very short but i think it's nice.

In the morning Graham has a headache and spots two rats huddled up in a corner together. He names them Siamese and Dream and then considers calling Alex and telling him to come over, but decides that it'd be useless since Alex would almost certainly say no anyway.  
The bed is empty, save for himself, of course, and there's a sticky note on the teal lampshade that reads; "STAY AWAY FROM THE CLOUDS" in Damon's handwriting. Graham doesn't know what Damon means by this, but he doesn't really care and carries on with his day as usual. 

Breakfast comes first, nothing special, just some tasteless corn flake cereal and a glass of water as he's always enjoyed the way drinking warm water after cereal feels. New Order plays quietly on MTV but he hardly pays any attention to it and instead thinks about the rats and what to do about them.  
He calls Jarvis and asks him if it's stupid to name two rats 'Siamese' and 'Dream', to which Jarvis replies; "Like the Cure song?" The answer is an obvious yes and Jarvis gives a disinterested 'I don't know' after that. Then Graham hangs up and gets tangled up in the phone cord for about five minutes.   
By 2:20 Graham's already sworn his life to The Birthday Party and smoked two packs of cigarettes. Ironically, the tv plays an anti-smoking ad as he's finishing off the last cigarette. The words "GOT CIGS, GOT DEATH" are on the screen for about fifteen seconds and Graham writes this on his arm in blue pen so he can tell Alex about it later.   
He calls Alex but no one answers so he's left lounging around for another thirty minutes or so until his body starts aching for nicotine and he puts on clothes and heads out. 

 

His neighborhood isn't exactly the best in town, but it's certainly a lot better than Alex's. Each house surrounding his building is old and worn, the once bright colors painted on the wood now faded and peeling.  
It's a 15 minute walk from his apartment to the gas station at the corner of the four way. From there you can either take a left towards Damon's neighborhood or keep going straight to get to Alex's place of employment. 

Alex works at a large cathedral-like church with beautiful stain glass windows and breathtaking architecture as a janitor. He wears an all black uniform with his name embroidered in white on it and after mass he walks around and chain smokes for several hours until the incense begins to make his head spin. Then he goes home and sits around until nightfall, when he usually goes out and drinks or attend a midnight screening at the theater.  
After he purchases some more cigarettes (Cloves instead of Marlboro) Graham walks over to the towering church, figuring that's where Alex must be. 

The doors to the church are taller than him and are extremely heavy and Graham struggles to push them open for a few minutes before they finally budge and open up to a truly gorgeous sight. Every bit of wood inside engraved with scripture or design, the pews are aligned neatly in rows and at the very back, behind the lone podium, stands a statue of Jesus Christ with his arms open, surrounded by clouds and angels and there in front of stands Alex, lighting a cigarette with the flame of one of the many candles surrounding the statue.   
The sight is breathtaking, especially, for Graham, Alex. His dark hair has fallen over his eyes and his cheekbones seem more prominent than they ever have been before. It reminds Graham of how lucky he is to know someone like him.   
As he walks down the aisle his footsteps echo and Alex watches him carefully, adoringly. They meet in the space between the pews and the stage, right in the center. Graham looks up at Alex and Alex down at Graham, neither one of them staying a word to each other. Alex takes a drag off the cigarette, then lets it fall from his skinny fingers onto the floor. 

Here, in the center, the stain glass windows on either side of the cast colors across their pale skin. Graham's face and neck are covered in reds and blues, resembling a mosaic, and it's the most beautiful thing Alex has ever seen.   
He kisses him gently at first, as he always does, just to make sure Graham is okay with it, and then he kisses him more passionately. They stay there like that, completely wrapped up in one another.   
One of Alex's hands trail down to Graham's hip and pulls him closer, breaking the kiss for a moment to look at Graham. "I love you."

He doesn't say anything. His stomach flops and he thinks about the night he spent with Damon and the things they said to each other. He thinks about how, if Alex went to his flat, he'd find traces of Damon everywhere and about.. About how this isn't right.   
He stares past Alex in the moments between kisses. Right over his shoulder at the large statue and he can see blood trickling down Christ's ribs and suddenly he feels himself trembling, but Alex doesn't seem to notice.  
"We're doing this in front of Jesus." Graham comments and Alex smirks.  
"I hope he's enjoying himself." He replies and kisses him again, but Graham doesn't feel the electricity. He's just staring, barely responding to Alex. Doesn't matter, he won't notice how automatic Graham's touches are anyway.   
He never notices much.


	5. V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is emotional and i'm seeing a lot of myself in it. strange..   
> tw; self harm

It's late, somewhere around 3AM and Graham can't push down the guilt any longer. He's lying in bed beside Damon, their bodies tangled up in one another, Damon's face buried in his neck, fingers tracing spirals on his stomach which is burning with anxiety. 

"I love you so much these days, Gra." Damon mumbles, almost hesitantly. Graham wonders why his voice gets so weak sometimes, why it breaks so suddenly.   
He can't bring himself to reply just yet. He hasn't had the time to process the words or.. Or the time to calm himself down. He wishes he could force his brain to work and absorb information again. He wishes he could bring himself back to the world without inflicting pain on himself. He wishes that he wasn't so insecure, that his glasses didn't make his eyes look so big, or that his haircut didn't make his nose stand out so much.. He wishes the bed and Damon were the only things that existed, that way he wouldn't have to worry about Alex or alcohol or pills or anything at all, ever.   
It was beginning to get so cold outside that there was ice on the railings of the balcony, little ice spears that glistened when the tiniest ray of sunshine hit them. They're fragile, thin, gone if you press too hard. He finds it odd that he can relate to a piece of ice. 

"When I'm at work at night, all these people flirt with me.." Graham tenses up, just slightly as Damon's words have only just half registered.   
"But I just.. Ignore them. They don't interest me, no one does." Damon tries to ignore the tiny black hole that has made its home in his ribcage. He swallows the emotions he wants to let spill out and makes sure to keep staring forwards as to avoid eye contact. "No one but you, Gra. You interest me."

He knows these words are supposed to be sweet, but for some reason they bother him beyond belief. Why would he interest anyone? He's an absolute nobody.   
He lives his life in a state of constant anxiety and confusion, not really knowing anything but the words on beer bottles and the taste of nicotine. He's an absolute mess, seeing blood on everything and crying at the drop of a hat. He was a train wreck! Is this what Damon found so 'interesting'? His instability?   
The thought caused a flicker of anger to light in his chest and fill every inch of his body with flames. He wanted to do something, say something, hurt something. Anything to make Damon know that his stability, or rather, lackthereof, is not a beautiful or poetic thing that you can whisk into a daydream and create fantasies about. His mental state caused headaches that lasted for hours on end, formed an anchor of sorts in his ribcage that stopped him from enjoying the things he used to love, and when the anchor isn't so bad, he can still feel it in every inch of his body. Like it evaporated and the dust that remained from it was traveling through his bloodstream. Sometimes it numbs him so badly he has to knock himself against the walls to get himself back, it takes him out of his body and he spends hours, days even, watching himself go around aimlessly. As if floating, adrift, like a ghost.

And there's nothing he can do about it. 

There's no magic potion he can take, no star to wish on, no savior or remedy. He has to learn how to stop it on his own. He needs to learn how to cope properly, that way he doesn't become a danger to himself or.. Or to Damon or.... Or to Alex. Again. 

He remembers faintly when he had his last outburst. It had been building up inside him for months, intense emotions he couldn't handle properly stacking up inside him like bricks. It took a gesture or.. Or maybe it was just a set of words or the way they were ordered or the tone they were spoken in..   
No matter. Something, something had struck him so harshly that he yelled back at Alex and began to panic. He'd ran away and found a box cutter in the cabinet below the sink and with shaking hands and blurred vision, made several deep and jagged cuts along his arms. Horizontally and vertically, sideways, whatever. It was.. Relieving?   
No, that's not the word. He doesn't want to put this in a positive light because it'd be   
easier for someone to romanticize then but..

But it did feel good for a moment or two, maybe less. To actually feel something as opposed to just drifting around and then being dragged down and then.. Released.. Into a slightly different, but still.. Sort of.. Exactly the same.. Kind of state.   
Alex had been banging and kicking at the locked door from the other side for several.. Hours? Minutes? He didn't know. He recalled time not existing at the time, just the sharp pain in his body that he almost welcomed.  
That is until he began to lose himself again. He slowly stopped feeling it as strongly and he wanted that feeling back, not even necessarily the pain just.. Just anything at all. After being deprived of pain and joy and almost everything emotion wise for so long, just the slightest hint of it, good or bad, was comforting. Like a friend. A friend he lost somewhere. Maybe in a drunken bar fight or to drugs or.. Or maybe they burnt out after too many hours if chain smoking on the balcony. Wherever it was that he lost them, they were back now, but, it seemed, only temporarily. Very temporarily. As a matter of fact, they were gone in what felt like seconds and he desperately wanted them to come back.   
But be started slipping worse than he ever had before and he could feel his senses dulling and by the time Alex somehow busted the door open, Graham was almost gone.   
He remembers being carried and he remembers kicking out as much as he could. He remembers making Alex bleed when he punched him (purposefully? incidentally?) and he remembers muttering about a friend and then the static settled in and there were lights but not much else and people tried touching him maybe but Alex refused and then he was moving.. Going somewhere, but he couldn't feel what he was lying on and .. And maybe he wasn't lying on anything.. Maybe he was just hovering in mid air and no one bothered.. To stop him or maybe.... 

 

Damons shifts, snuggling up closer to Graham and now he's back on the bed again. He wants to go back to being away from this situation, but he reminds himself that he isn't in control of where he goes or what he does. 

"Damon." He weakly states, not bothering to try and touch him or do anything more than just uttering his name.   
"Hm?"

Graham feels bad for him. He has no idea what's happening or what has happened. He's never even asked about the scars on his arms before, probably never even noticed.   
He's just like Alex in these respects. He never notices anything and if he does, he doesn't elaborate on it or even think about it. He just lets it be. If something happens, he doesn't bring it up again, just pretends it never happened but Graham knows it did. He knows it did and he wants to talk about it because it doesn't make sense and he wants to know why it happened.   
But no one has ever said anything.

"Damon, I miss Alex." And he leaves it at that, even if it calls for more explaining. He leaves it alone and tries to forget like Alex and Damon do.  
"I love you, Gra." Damon says again, like it never happened. "More now than ever."


	6. VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a happier chapter about damon! the short story is very real and very beautiful, i suggest you read it before you read this as it spoils the story. it's titled "the flowers" and is by alice walker.

Damon lives his life trying to understand the complex emotions that he knows, on some level, that Graham is feeling.   
He thinks that Graham thinks that he's an idiot, that he doesn't notice things, that he doesn't ever consider or evaluate or contemplate. That he's empty headed and overall just plain daft.   
But he isn't. He never was.

_" **8:16 AM.** bus stop. been up since 6. hopefully we get some sun today. graham said it again last night in his sleep, about blood. wish he had a journal to snoop around in. speaking of snoop, "murder was the case" has been lodged in my brain for what feels like years. wonder what it takes to get a good tune out of your head."_

He stares at the street across from him. There's a zoo somewhere nearby where mothers take their children after school and gawk at fowl smelling animals. He likes to go to the zoo despite the smell because of the elephants. He's always wanted to pet one or sit on one's back. He wonders if that trumpet like noise they make can be used to make some sort of music. An elephant to replace brass, maybe. The thought puts a smile  
on his face and he draws an elephant on the page to his best ability. 

Right now, he's fascinated with animal print and the noises bongos make. Maybe this is what brings him to the zoo, who knows? Whatever it is that bring him here, guides him in and out if mini exhibits and down the paths made to look like rainforests. He doesn't know where he's going exactly, but he does know that the path he's following has a snake painted on it that he assumes you are supposed to follow.   
So he starts to walk inside the painted snake, moving with it in a zigzag and in a circle when it curls around for whatever reason and then jumps on it's head when he's reached the end of the path. Which is, coincidencidentally, a large opening in the earth (or at least that's what it's  
supposed to look like), with railings all around it and inside- elephants! 

Damon stands on the edge, looking down at them. They would be closer if there wasn't so much rocks and fake plants separating them. He wonders if there's a special occasion where you can interact with them, maybe a little baby elephant. 

He realizes to some extent that there most certainly are people, adults in their forties and children mostly, who are watching him instead of elephants. He knows this because a mother comments on him, mutters to her husband; "What's that boy doing? Where's  
his mother? He could fall in."   
He doesn't care, though. He keeps leaning over the rails, smiling at the animals and hoping they can tell how happy he is.   
An older one, probably the biggest of them all, looks over at him and Damon thinks to himself; Hello! I'm Damon, I'm 25 years old which is sorta old, but I'm certain you're older. No offense. What's your name?

His hands are gripping onto the rail, on either side of a small beige sign that reads: African Elephants and then the names of each elephant. The name at the very bottom of the list is Mr.Tembo and Damon writes this down in his journal, along with the words; 

_Can I sing with you?_

 

Damon sits back at the bus stop. The sky has been ripped open, it seems, and there is finally some sun coming through. He feels the warmth upon his skin and smiles up at the light shining down at him. 

He wonders if Graham enjoys the sunshine as much as he does. He also wonders if Graham takes in the details of the nice church Alex works at, the one he's been 'banned' from going to.   
He made a promise to Graham several months ago that he wouldn't interact with Alex in any way, which meant not visiting the church. It is rather upsetting as he has always wondered if it is pretty as it is on the inside as it is on the outside.   
He isn't sure what he believes in. He doesn't know if there is a God or a Jesus Christ or, well, anything for that matter. He's constantly starving for information, but there isn't much to explore or learn in this city, he's already so familiar with it that it's beginning to become, well, dull. 

When he was a kid, he was a paperboy for a very brief period of time. He was to deliver papers to only two sections of the city, but the other boy who worked with him frequently skipped his shift, leaving Damon to do all the work. So he'd do it all with a smile on his face, delivering to every house for several months before his mother found him a job elsewhere.   
He misses his bike. He's still not too sure what happened to it. I was just there one day and then gone the next it was gone. Perhaps his parents threw it out?   
Around that time in his life he began to spend a lot more time with Graham, which meant he didn't have any time to spare for the bike. He regrets that, to be frank. Abandoning the bike, that is. He feels like he's abandoned a lot in his life. Old toys, records, favorite books, poems..   
It's quite sad to think about, really. How easy it is to just forget about things that, at one point, meant the world. 

He recalls a short story he read in school called 'The Flowers' written by Alice Walker. It was about a little girl named Myop who went exploring in the woods one day.   
She went in the middle of summer, looking for some entertainment and some freedom away from the family's sharecropper cabin. She carried with her a stick and went about in search for something to do.  
She'd picked several flowers and stones and other things she fancied and was on her way back home when she'd stepped right between his eyes.   
There beneath her feet lay the corpse of a tall man, beside him, lie his head. His uniform was damaged by weathering, his teeth had been white and were chipped, his bones big. She picks a wild pink rose from beside his head and there she finds it, coiled around the rose's root, the rotting remains of a noose.

He remembers the last line well, and as he whispers it to himself he's filled with a nameless dread. "And the summer was over."


	7. VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i dont know why it starts like that

"But you know that I love you."  
"Don't speak for me." And then he pulls away and makes his way to the door again. It's been a long time since you've felt this way, so hollow and empty. Your body is the desert, vast and barren and lonely.   
The sun beats down on your head as you walk the streets and you can feel your lungs beginning to shrivel up and evaporate like the rain puddles.   
It's when you turn the corner and see him sitting there on the bus bench, chin raised and eyes closed, facing the sunlight peeking out behind the clouds, that you get a sharp pain in your stomach and find yourself hunched over the nearest trash can. 

This is the man. He is the one.

You can sense it. You can smell it and you can taste it and you can hear it and if you focus hard enough on the tingling in your fingertips, you can feel it. 

You are reminded of a line from a short story; _"The disease had sharpened my senses --not destroyed --not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad?"_

You read it somewhere once. In class many years ago, at the back of the room, in the dark, on Halloween day, listening to a recording of it being played from the teacher's small handheld CD player.   
The quality was shit and you felt it appropriate because, at the time, so was the story. But now that you seem to have unlocked a previously shut off part of your brain, you feel almost likewise with the narrator and you kick over the trash can, wipe your lips with the back of your hand, and hurry past him with clenched fists.

 

Although there was no identifiable reason for it to be, the experience was all too extreme for him and he ended up waiting on a park bench a few blocks down, watching him carefully and waiting for him to leave because, as it so happens, he took the wrong turn.  
It aggravates him to think that this could have all been avoided had he just payed attention instead of letting his mind fry like an egg. This is ridiculous, this is tedious, this is absolutely unbareable.   
His stomach begins to knot itself, then growl and he bites on his bottom lip for several more minutes until it begins to hurt and he realizes that his stomach is probably eating itself. So he gets up.

He walks weakly, limbs shaking, slowly over the where he is sitting. Food is just past the man, down the street. 

He just.. Needs.. To.. Pass him.....

 

Alex spots a brown bag next to the man with the name 'Damon' written across it in blue ink. Childish, he thinks to himself, but then begins to wonder if there is food in there.   
He'd rather deal with the frustration than starve trying to get to a fast food restaurant to eat a shitty salad. 

And so he sits down.

 

It takes him a while to notice that someone has sat down beside him, but once he does, he can’t help acknowledging the sudden anxiety building up in his stomach. Is this how Graham feels all day long? Hopefully not.

“Hello.” He says, very hesitantly, as if he would disrupt the unrest Alex was in.  
“Hey..” He forced out in reply, looking past him at the brown paper bag. “Would there, by any chance, be food in that bag?” 

Damon raises an eyebrow at him and they exchange several awkward glances until he finally decides it's best to answer him.  
"Oh, um. Well, I have a granola bar.." He turns to open the brown paper bag. "I don't know if that's some y-"  
"Yes, please." He interrupts. "I'm starving, that'd be amazing."  
"Er.. Okay.." And so he gives him the granola bar and tries his best to focus on something else. The sun, the passing cars, the people across the street, anything. But it's extremely difficult to do so when there is someone beside you who is not only rather attractive but also pretty.. Odd beside you. 

Damon gets a sick feeling in his stomach and he wishes that he hadn't left the zoo. A distinct emptiness has made it's home in his chest and he needs to go home and fill it up.  
"So, uh.." Alex breaks the silence. "How've you been?"  
It takes Damon awhile to come up with a good enough response. "I've been.. Good."  
"Well that's good!" 

The air is still and Alex can’t seem to finish the granola bar any quicker. Suddenly he feels as if they’re the only two people in the entire earth and nothing is moving at all and it’s so. Fucking. Awkward.

“So.. Are you.. Dating anyone?” He asks hesitantly because it might be touchy, but he figures that it’d make him talk.

“Oh, oh yeah..” Damon trails off, looking down at his journal. “Yeah, a boy named Graham.”  
Alex’s heart just about stops beating.

“Graham Coxon..” Alex mumbles and Damon looks over at him with a huge smile on his face; “You know him?”

“Yeah.. I’m uh.. I’m dating him too... “


	8. VIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't like how short these chapters are but oh well. we'll roll with the flow.

He's lying underneath the kitchen table hugging a bottle of chocolate flavored vodka, has been for several hours now, and the radio goes.. _You can have it all but how much do you want it?_ And he can't remember the name of the band or the song but the words make him ache because he wants to feel that, too. He wants to feel like he’s on top of the world and there are no consequences or bad memories or thoughts just a constant winning streak and he’s at number one wearing the medal around his neck.  
But the only thing around his neck is the phone cord, tied like a noose, and the only one winning is that dark water filling up inside him, consuming him, making him say and do things he doesn’t feel and somewhere..  
Somewhere out there, there is a dark haired boy talking to a light haired boy waiting for the bus to arrive and he knows he’ll be in trouble again soon. That's just the way it is and he’s got to roll with the punches.  
No one is hurting him, no one is stabbing thorns into his back or kicking him down (except himself, mentally). But at a point in time someone was and he can still fucking feel it. He can still hear the thud thud thud of his footsteps against the wood and he can still feel his ribs weakening from the hits. And he says to himself; "Why am I doing this? Why am I still here? He doesn't mean it.. Why am I doing this to him?" Even though he’s the one who's getting the shit beaten out of them and he’s the one who's coughing up blood as he rips and tears at his insides, eating him up and riddling him with unwanted touches and he screams and screams and screams but the world is distant and far and

 

The door slams shut and snaps him out of his daydream and he waits, listens, weary, until he hears a sound he likes.  
"Graham?" Asks a trembling voice, which strikes up anxiety, so he crawls out from underneath the table and leaves the bottle there dripping. 

Damon turns to face him from the bedroom and they make eye contact. Their worlds merge into one and Graham swears he can hear the sound of a tape rewinding.  
"What this shit you've got on?" Damon asks, in reference to the music.  
"Sonic." He replies. Pause. Damon looks at him oddly. "Supersonic."  
"What the hell is Supersonic?" He has a disgruntled look on his face.  
"This song." He points to the radio.

Damon glances at the radio and the shakes his head, "It's rubbish that's what it is." And then he walks over and pulls Graham into a tight hug, arms wrapped around his waist.  
Graham places his chin on his shoulder and listening to the sound of his breathing. "I've missed you so much, Damon.."  
"This shit's ruining the mood." He replies after a long period of silence and pulls away, moving past him and into the kitchen.

Graham prays he doesn't see the bottle lying there on the tiles and his prayers are answered, or maybe Damon just chose not to say anything, who knows. But whatever reason it is he takes a seat at the chair closest to the window and stares outside for what feels like years.  
Graham does as he assumes he should, he approaches Damon and carefully drapes his arms around his shoulders, careful not to startle him, and tries to see what Damon is looking at. However, no matter how long he stares for, he just isn't so sure what he's supposed to be looking at. There's nothing there, nothing of interest but Damon is glued to something. 

He shifts unexpectedly and Graham lets his arms slide down to his pockets and watches nervously as Damon leans forwards and places his elbows on the table. He hides his face in his palms and remains still, as if about to start crying. Graham relocates himself to the chair across from him, figuring he doesn't want to be touched.

Graham notices the sharpness of his cheekbones a bit more than usual, which is concerning at first, but then he realizes that Damon must have just gotten taller. Thinned out. That's all.  
"I met Alex." Damon finally speaks, but they aren't the words Graham wants to hear.  
"What?"  
"You heard me." He replies, dragging his hands down his face. "I met Alex."  
“Oh.” 

The songs switches, something he remembers hearing once. At a party or something, somewhere he doesn’t remember. Another moment gone.

_Roses in the hospital, try to pull my fingernails out  
Roses in the hospital, I want to cling to something soft.._

“And?” he asks, too scared to look at Damon, so he instead looks out the window again.

 

“And I didn’t know it was him,” He replies with an edge to his voice. “So I said I was dating you when he asked if I was seeing anyone and I know that it’s no one’s fault but my own I-”  
“You couldn’t have known.” He interrupts, rubbing his eyes. 

Damon taps the vodka bottle lying underneath the table with his foot, listening to the clinking noise it makes as it moves across the tiled floor. He watches the clear liquid seep out into the indents between tiles and move in a path towards the cabinets.

“Did he say anything?”  
“He goes; ‘I’m dating him too.’” He sighs, not so much bothered by the fact that Graham will probably be upset for the rest of the day, but rather upset because he knows that he’ll probably do something else to fuck it all up again.  
“That’s such shit, though!” He raises his voice incidentally and he expects Damon to wince or something but he never does, just stays still. “We were never officially dating,”  
Damon shrugs, turning his attention back to the outside where it's just begun to rain. The song is still playing and Damon wishes something else would come on, something that fits the mood better. He wants to sulk to something that's sulkable.  
"Do you have any Smiths records?" He asks, rubbing his eyes.  
"Yeah, of course." Graham replies.

He lifts himself up from the seat and turns off the radio as he makes his way into Graham's bedroom.


	9. IX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hehehe only one person knows where this is going im so excited you should be too haha the scary story is from a book called the unexplained something that was published in 1989 its a collection of spooky stories

It seems like a matter of seconds between when Damon leaves and 'Reel Around the Fountain' starts playing. And even a shorter amount of time between when 'Reel Around the Fountain' starts playing and when the first crack of thunder sounds outside.  
Graham stays where he is, not bothering to move as the song continues to play. It reminds him of running around the city as teenagers, aimless and rowdy, with years ahead of them.  
He knows he's only in his twenties and that he has ages ahead of him to go, but right now it feels as if he's forty years older, or like he's just gotten back from war.

"To most of us, aviation's worst disaster in history came as a decided shock – but not to the man who knew it was going to happen." Damon reads from the bedroom, sitting beside the turntable. 

"One of the world's most tragic airline accidents took place in the Canary Islands, south of Spain, on March 20, 1977. On that fateful day, 577 people lost their lives.." 

Rain continues to pour and Damon continues to read. Graham listens, eyes watching the cars and people pass by his window.

"Perhaps the only person in the world who was not shocked at the news was Lee Fried, a native of New Orleans and a student at Duke University." 

Sometimes Graham pretends that he is living inside a movie. Some kind of twisted, disturbingly realistic film and he imagines an audience getting a kick out of his misery. And films critics acclaiming it, so that way at least someone is enjoying it. 

"A week before the accident, Fried, in the presence of Duke President Terry Sanford, predicted what the front page and the sports page headlines would be in the March 22nds edition of the Raleigh, North Carolina New and Observer newspaper." 

He raises himself up off of the chair and manages, somehow, to make it across the hall into the bedroom.   
He lowers himself down on the other side of the turn table and stares across the room at the clock on the wall. 

"He wrote the headlines, showed them to no one, and locked then in the desk in President Sanford's office. 

Only the president had the key. 

On Tuesday, March 22, the envelope was opened. The headline Fried had written for the front page said: "583 die in collision of 747s in worst disaster in aviation history." To everyone's amazement, the actual front page headline said, "530 killed as jets collide in fog." An overline read: "Worst air disaster in history."" 

Graham sighs and the rain keeps pouring.  
'Miserable." Graham thinks to himself.

 

The music in the club is pounding, so loud the glass bottles on the racks behind him are rattling and he can't make himself stop moving. He did a line (or three) of coke an hour or so ago, and now he's on fire. Taking orders left and right, distributing drinks (and downing them as well) at the speed of light. 

The crowd is large, larger than any other night and Alex is moving quickly and with abandon. He hasn't consumed too much, but he's drunk enough to not be able to stop his limbs from moving. So here he is, dancing to some 80s track that's pounding in his chest and there's people all around him.  
It feels better now, the aching in his heart. Now that he's had a few drinks and he's done a line, it doesn't seem to matter much anymore.

Damon finds himself with nothing to do, the orders all taken and the drinks all served. He's leaning against the wall behind the bar, staring into the crowd when his eyes lock onto a familiar face.   
Sharp cheekbones, dark hair falling over his eyes and all long limbs, moving in the neon lights. Something at the back of his mind tells him that what he's about to do isn't a good idea, but he pushes it back and slides out from behind the bar. 

As the songs mix into one another, one eventually becoming louder than the other the lighting dims to a yellow and casts shadows over Alex's thin body. Damon approaches him slowly at first, but eventually they're dancing unison beside the nearest speaker, Damon watching Alex with an unwavering gaze.   
He runs his fingers along the curves of Alex's body and, although he knows its wrong, Alex allows him to.   
Damon reaches up and connects their lips, hands drifting down to Alex's rear and Alex wraps his arms around Damon's waist. 

Damon sings into Alex's ear;  
 _"And now I wanna.. Be your dog..  
Now I wanna.. Be your dog.."_


	10. X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's all so pleasant

Alex tries to remember the name scribbled on the paper bag as he unbuckles Damon's belt in the cramped bathroom stall. He tries to figure out how this horny blonde mess could possibly be the same timid and naive looking boy from the bus stop he met just a day or two before. But something in his mind isn't registering and when Damon shoves his hand down Alex's trousers, his mind goes blank and the only thing he's concerned with is fucking him senseless.  
"Didn't think you to be such a slut, bus stop boy." He manages as he looks down at Damon, thinking about how he wants him.  
"Damon." He corrects, "My name is Damon." He says and Alex wraps his arms around his waist again and pulls him closer, kissing him again except harder this time and Damon goes weak in the knees.  
"But you can call me Pup."

Alex snickers a bit, as if he finds it stupid, but it goes straight to his cock and he turns Damon around, pressing him up against the bathroom stall.   
"Alright then, Pup." He mumbles as he reaches into his back pocket, pulling out the little bottle of lube he carries with him. Just in case something like this happens (which hardly ever does, mind you).   
"You like it rough or soft?"  
"Stop asking stupid questions." He snaps back and Alex grins. 

 

  
They're sitting behind the bar, on the concrete floor with their limbs intertwined and Damon's beginning to feel that guilt settle in.   
He can't remember how the two of them ended up here on the floor and he can't tell what time it is, either, but judging from the light falling onto Alex's face - it must be early in the morning. 

He knows he'll have to be home soon, which he is absolutely dreading as at home there is a phone and where there is a phone there is an awaiting call from Graham. The one person he probably wants to avoid the most right now.  
Alex leans forwards and places a hand on Damon's cheek, running his thumb over his cheekbones. It's only now in the light that he can see the indents on his face, the bags underneath his eyes. He kisses him regardless, mind and body still hung up on whatever it is he took last night.   
Damon kisses back gently, hesitantly, and wonders if Alex has responsibilities to tend to as well or if he just spends all day strutting around being pretty. 

"You have somewhere to be?" Damon asks quietly.  
"Yeah," he replies and kisses him again. "Church." He continues.  
"Church?" He says it mockingly, so Alex understands how ridiculous he sounds.  
"Yeah, I work at a Church."  
"Aren't priests supposed to be celibate or something?" He asks, eyes trailing down Alex's thin body.  
He shrugs, not wanting to take his lips off his. He rests his arms on Damon's shoulders and continues kissing, ears ringing slightly.  
"Filthy." Damon mumbles between kisses. "Filthy, filthy, filthy."   
"Oh, like you're any better." He coos, resting his forehead on Damon's. Their eyes meet, "You're just as big of a slag as I am."

In the moment when their eyes meet, there is something that shocks the both of them. It's almost as if their hearts skip a beat or something, and they both seem to feel is based off the subtle jump they both give.  
 _It's like seeing Graham all over again,_ they think. 

"Oh shit." Alex jumps up, pulling himself away from Damon, who's left sitting on the floor with a puzzled look on his face.  
"What?" He groans as he reaches for the bar top to pull himself up with.  
"Graham." His heart's beginning to beat like crazy and a wave of guilt floods over him.  
"Fuck.. Yeah, Graham." He repeats, rubbing his temples. "Damnit." 

"Oh God, look, okay." Alex turns around a bit too fast and is met with a raging headache. "Fuck." He hisses as he reaches for the nearest note pad and pen.   
In a frenzy, he quickly writes down his name and phone number, then hands it to Damon. "I gotta get to work." He explains, running his fingers through his hair. "Call me and we'll talk about it, don't mention it to Graham until we've got a plan."   
And then, just like that, he's out the door.

 

 

"All I'm saying is that they're a bit too loud mouthed for me." Jarvis mutters, stirring his coffee.   
"You're a bit too loud mouthed for me." Graham retorts.  
"Then leave," Jarvis replies with a smirk.

Graham rolls his eyes and reverts his attention back to the television, where the heavy eyebrowed Gallagher brothers are being interviewed.   
"Quite fancy the taller one." He chimes.  
"Liam?" The lankier man glances over his shoulder at Graham, an eyebrow raised.  
"I guess."  
Jarvis pretends to gag and turns back to the television. "Aren't there any straight men in this city?"  
"You consider yourself straight?" He asks, taking a sip of his tea.  
"Yes."  
"Sexuality is such an odd thing nowadays. Everyone's always hating on everyone else for their identity. Like, just leave each other alone." He rubs his eyes, yawning. "What business of it is yours whether or not those two blokes at the diner are shaggin or not? They aren't bothering you, just leave them alone."   
Jarvis nods in agreement, although he isn't really listening. He's focused on the two brothers. "That younger one's got diarrhea of the mouth." He comments and Graham yawns again.  
"I think they're good."  
“Marry them, then.”  
Graham laughs; “A threesome?”  
“Poly.” Jarvis replies, watching the tv.   
“What’s that?” He asks, craning his neck to look at Jarvis.  
“This is the modern world,” he mumbles. “Do your research.” 

He smirks regardless of the anxiety building in his gut and leans back; “Whatever, Paul Weller.”


End file.
